I was thinking to myself today that
Before it rains the rest of the week, I
climb a ladder, three
times, carrying materials for repair.
The man who built the roof, was far from a fair
roofer, not putting new metal beneath the
older metal, so I knew why
it leaks. Like a poet,
I edit his flaws
and now it can rain,
rain,
rain.
My boyfriend won’t get a cat
because he doesn’t know
where he’ll be in a year
and he doesn’t want to force
a cat to move across the country.
I say cats are made for moving.
I want my cat to see all 50 states
and maybe wear a harness
so she can walk with me.
And maybe after all the miles,
I’ll tell her all the things
I won’t tell those
with memory.
Passed sundown, but not quite night.
Heat, humidity still fill
the air. I tote trash outside,
collect recycling, move bins
to curb. My hair kinks with sweat.
Lone firefly shadows me, brings
light and joy to humdrum task.
This poem was supposed to trip into a mess
Expose and explore an ugliness.
But my heart overflows, lifts the corners of my lips,
Crinkles my eyes as I breathe these moments of bliss:
My youngest’s soothing coos, trying to keep their canine sidekick still,
My eldest’s hesitance and confidence, his hands on the wheel,
A salad for lunch, some crispness to savor,
The three of us — family — working apart and together,
A long avoided task finally ticked off my to-do,
A day of learning, accomplishment and gratitude.
I think it’s going to be okay
To save outrage for another day.
I organize books on multiple bookcases in the upstairs office.
The oppressive heatwave crushes any hope for relief,
I am pressed beneath the summer scorch and my eye catches a pile of rock and roll magazines from the 90s.
Familiar and forgotten faces grace covers and pages.
A wave of nostalgia brushes my cheek —
I guess it was attracted to the soft skin,
Like a venus fly trap, my salty, sticky sweat won’t release it.
I close in on its naivety, anticipating how sweet it will taste after I kill it.
A calendar in the back of Circus magazine reminds me that I celebrated my birthday on a Tuesday–
forever marked by sharing a week with Kurt Cobain’s supposed suicide
(people still speculate).
I took a deep breath and flipped through the pages,
I stared at colorful crowds– not a cell phone in sight.
Youthful faces drenched in each other’s sweat scream from their acne pocked faces.
Commercial beauty hadn’t fully infiltrated the repugnance of our youth.
This truth, captured without consent, remains the evidence we bury deep,
careful not to grace heavenly, pristine digital spaces–
at least not without a touch-up.
The heat rises, falls, and crowd surfs through the stifling air
It feels just like those concert halls–
I can hear the crowd roar (or is that a fever playing tricks on me?)
Back then, I didn’t know that I’d be more likely to celebrate my birthday on more Tuedays in what we often called “the new millennium”–
a name that fits like a faded pair of JNCOs.
It’s hard to believe I may boil alive in this room;
Good thing it isn’t Tuesday.
‘70s brick stacks the outside
Of the establishment
Pop machines and coin machines
For laundry
Dollar store fold-outs
Mini flower beds
And community tomato plants
Welcome mats
Grills And picnic tables
Playground down the road
Clothes lines for miles
Heavy traffic
Speed trap
Numbers on doors
Window units that leak
In the humid air of a summer day
She silently slips her bruised foot into the satin, pink pointe shoe. Presses toes against the firm box. Lambswool hugs each phalange to reduce blistering. Gel spacers tucked in place to alleviate pain. Prevent friction. She strategically wraps the two long, flat ribbons around her slender ankle. Opposite directions. Overlapping in the front forming a cross. A pause for prayer. Ties the melted (to prevent fraying) ends in a knot. Tucks the knot under the ribbon. On the inside of the ankle. Hiding the twisted truth from view. Stands. Pirouettes. Lowers her head. Her eyes. Curtseys.
She
is
now
ready
to
tip
toe
through
her
day.
Don’t stifle the art—
